


A Study in Scars

by aintitnifty



Series: Only Human [4]
Category: The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Also There Are Faeries, Harry Likes BAMFs, John is a BAMF, M/M, POV First Person, This Leads To Good Things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2013-07-01
Packaged: 2017-12-16 17:47:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/864852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aintitnifty/pseuds/aintitnifty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marcone makes a point, and the boys make a mess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study in Scars

**Author's Note:**

> Back to Harry's POV!
> 
> This is a sequel to... well, all of the preceding stories in this series. It would be very helpful to read those first.
> 
> Enjoy, guys!

I wasn’t pacing.

Okay, it might have _looked_ like I was pacing, what with the whole walking-rapidly-back-and-forth-in-front-of-the-fireplace thing, but pacing meant nerves, and I was most assuredly not nervous.

Really. I wasn’t.

Sure, Marcone was due to arrive at my place any moment, and yeah, we were going to spend the majority of the night alone in my living room discussing supernatural politics and the like, but that was no reason to be nervous, right? That was just another day on the job. Helping out an almost-friend. For a friendly fee. Nothing to be nervous about.

I heaved a sigh—probably my eighteen thousandth of the night—and drooped against the wall near the fireplace. Mouse cocked his head at me from his seat near the couch. He was the only witness to my not-pacing; Mister was napping on top of the bookshelf with his back to the world, clearly unsympathetic and utterly unconcerned about my nerves.

Stupid cat.

But no, I was _not nervous_. I was… edgy. Restive. Skittish. Pick a synonym. But definitely not nervous.

And then there was a knock at the door, and I almost had a heart attack.

“Uh… just a minute!” I blurted.

 _Just a minute?_ What the hell was I going to do in that minute?

Mouse gave me a baleful look and padded over to the door. He looked at it, then at me, then back at the door.

“Oh fine, you big bully,” I grumbled, stalking over to the door. I hip-bumped him out of the way (he moved of his own volition, of course; my bony hips could hardly shift him an inch), undid the myriad locks, and lowered my wards. Then I took a big breath, and wrenched the door open.

John Marcone stood just outside, smiling slightly.

“You should really get that door fixed,” he said.

“It’s on my to-do list,” I grumbled. I peered around him toward the street, looking for henchmen. “Cujo didn’t come with you?”

“He’s been ordered to pick me up later tonight, after we’ve finished our discussion. He’s not one for supernatural politics, and I know you’re not too keen on him, so I figured you’d both be happier this way.”

“Eh. He’s not so bad,” I said, recalling our phone conversation the other day. Marcone gave me a considering look, and I cleared my throat, flushing a little. I’d just opened my mouth to make a no-doubt very witty rejoinder when I heard a soft _chuff_ from near my right hip.

Oh, right. Mouse.

Marcone eyed my dog warily. Mouse is big enough to make even the bravest person pause, and Marcone was one of the few who knew what he was capable of.

“He won’t hurt you,” I said. Then I frowned down at Mouse. “At least, he shouldn’t. I’ll admit, I don’t really know what he’s up to.”

“Just investigating, I’m sure.” Marcone slowly raised his left hand, palm-down, and presented his knuckles for Mouse to sniff. Mouse snuffled at him dutifully, then sat on his hindquarters and lifted one massive paw for Marcone to shake.

“Huh,” I said.

“He doesn’t do this with everyone?” Marcone asked, his lips curved in a small smile as he shook my dog’s paw.

“Only the people he likes. I suppose it’s a good sign, though. Better than him gnawing your face.” Marcone flashed me an incredulous look, and I waved a hand, stepping aside. “Never mind. Come on in.”

“Thank you,” he said wryly, patting Mouse on the head as he stepped past me into the apartment. I closed the door behind him and, after a moment of deliberation, reset my wards.

I turned to find Marcone watching me intently, his coat folded neatly over one arm.

“Are we expecting trouble?” he asked.

I snorted. “It’s us. When _aren’t_ we expecting trouble?”

His lips quirked. “Point taken.”

“So…” I hesitated, rubbing the back of my neck. Marcone’s sharp eyes never left my face, which really wasn’t helping my nerves. I kept thinking back to last Friday, to his thumb gently tracing circles on my knee, to the brush of his lips against my hand, and… yeah, that was about where that train of thought derailed.

Bad Harry.

“So.” Marcone laid his jacket over the back of my couch, then lowered himself gracefully onto the cushions. He should not have looked so comfortable on my old leather sofa—I’d seen his house, and I highly doubted anything even slightly resembling my worn old couch was allowed on the premises—but he relaxed right into it, one arm slung over the back, the other hooked on an armrest. He arched a brow. “Where should we start?”

My own descent onto the couch was much less graceful. More of a _thwump_ than a settle.

Smooth, Dresden. Very smooth.

“You’re the one who wanted advice,” I said. “You tell me.”

“All right.” Marcone’s eyes narrowed. “Say a member of the Accords is encroaching on my territory with the idea of doing harm to me and mine. What defensive action can I take?”

I blinked. “Erm. Is this a hypothetical situation?”

Marcone’s reply was desert-dry. “What do you think?”

“Is this about the vampire attack?” I asked, sitting up a bit so I wouldn’t hurt my back. “Because they’re not Accords members, so—”

“Think, Mr. Dresden.” Marcone leaned forward, his eyes gleaming. “Were the vampires the only recent attempt on my life?”

“Oh. I guess not.” I started to bounce my knee, trying not to show too much discomfort. We were getting close to a sensitive subject there. Previous experience had shown that the less I thought about Marcone’s brush with death, the better. “So you think an Accords member was behind the, uh… the shooting?”

“More specifically, I think a member of the Summer Court was behind the shooting.”

I frowned. “Explain.”

Marcone settled back into his seat. “First of all, not a single one of the would-be assassins was mob-affiliated, or had any real history of crime. I think the biggest offense between the four of them was an outstanding parking ticket.” Marcone held up his left hand, two fingers up. “Secondly, each shooter was almost definitely enthralled, considering they passed out as soon as they were arrested and woke up in jail six hours later with no idea of how they got there.”

“Hold up,” I said. “You let them take the shooters to _jail_? Isn’t that against some sort of mafia code?”

Marcone smiled humorlessly. “I didn’t exactly have much say in the matter. I was unconscious and bleeding out at the time.”

I winced; I really didn’t want to think about that. “Okay, fine, but that aside, how do you know these people weren’t mob-affiliated? What if they were new hires, chosen specifically because of their lack of history?”

“One of the shooters was a fourteen year-old boy from Minnesota, in town to see his grandparents. He woke up in jail, saw the news report of what he had done, and started to cry.”

“… Oh.”

“‘Oh’ is right. Naturally, this led me to assume supernatural involvement, which led me to faeries, which eventually led me to the Summer Court.”

“And the vampires last week were… what, a coincidence?”

Marcone shrugged. “Plan B, I suppose. Where the humans failed, perhaps the vampires would succeed.”

“But why would a faerie go to so much trouble just to kill you?” I asked.

“That’s where it gets… complicated.” Marcone suddenly looked uncomfortable, and he met my eyes briefly before turning his gaze to the fireplace. “I’ve talked over my concerns with Miss Gard, and she and I both agree that this whole assassination attempt may be, as I said before, the scheme of a Summer Lord.”

I frowned. “But why—?”

Marcone held up a hand. I shut up.

“Before I continue, Mr. Dresden, I need you not to read too much into this, no matter how it may sound,” he said quietly. “Please promise me you won’t overreact.”

“But I—”

“Promise me.”

I stared at him, a little stunned. “Okay.”

Marcone sighed and lowered his hand.

“Gard suggested—and after some contemplation, I agree—that all of this is because of you,” he said. “Or, more specifically, my connection to you. The Summer fae are nervous about a formal alliance between myself, a free-holding lord, and you, with your connections to the Winter Court, so they decided to take me out of the equation entirely. With no free-holding lord, there would be no alliance, and no shift in power. A neat solution to a potentially lethal problem.”

My stomach dropped. I gaped at Marcone, unwilling to let the explanation sink in, because… no. That couldn’t be true. It _couldn’t_.

… Could it?

I guess it made sense, in a convoluted, Faerie-logic kind of way. I _did_ have more ties to the Winter Court than any respectable wizard should have, thanks in small part to my mother and in large part to my own teenage desperation and incapability to make good decisions, so it wasn’t too farfetched an assumption to believe that someday I would ally myself with Winter and, in doing so, bring my own allies with me.

Allies that nowadays included the free-holding lord, Baron John Marcone.

And that shifting of alliances could lead to an imbalance of power between the two Faerie Courts, which would then lead to a supernatural war of epic proportions, like the one that had been narrowly avoided years ago with the help of yours truly.

So… yeah. I saw it. How taking out a single, mortal free-holding lord would be a workable (and painless, at least for the Sidhe) way to keep the supernatural world from descending into chaos.

But it all led back to one thing, in the end, and that was what really got me.

 _It’s my fault._ The thought hit me like a sledgehammer, right between the eyes, hard and painful and blinding. _It’s all my fault. My fault he’s been targeted, my fault he almost died, my fault_ —

“Harry?” Marcone’s voice was impossibly soft. I’d never heard that tone from him before. I had no idea how to respond to it, so instead my mouth went on auto-drive and I blurted out:

“It’s my fault.”

“Harry…”

“It’s my fault you almost died,” I said, ignoring him, because now my mouth was utterly out of control and I felt like I wanted to die a little. Stars, this _always_ happened, didn’t it? Why was it always the people around me who got hurt any time I screwed up, or made yet another enemy, or, hell, _breathed_? Susan, Murphy, Michael… and now Marcone.

Hell’s bells, he hadn’t even _done_ anything. His only crime was that he knew me, and for that, some radical Summer Court lord had sentenced him to die.

I dropped my head into my hands, trying to breathe. And if it also helped me to avoid Marcone’s strangely kind eyes, then, well, that was fine, too.

“Harry, this is in no way your fault,” Marcone insisted. I felt his hand on my shoulder, squeezing gently, but his words barely registered. I kept trying to breathe. “We could never have known that the Summer Court would resort to such drastic measures simply because of the slight possibility that our acquaintance would lead to more power in the Winter Court. Think about that, Harry. Do you hear how ridiculous that sounds?”

Okay, yes, it did sound ridiculous, and exactly like something a conniving Summer Lord would come up with, but still… 

“If it weren’t for me—” I began, my voice cracking slightly.

Marcone’s voice was firm: “If it weren’t for you, I’d be dead.”

I shook my head. “No, if it weren’t for me, you’d still be just a vanilla mortal crime lord and none of this would be happening.”

“And I’d still be dead,” Marcone said. “Or do you not remember the werewolf incident?”

“But that wasn’t—”

“Harry, _this_ is what I meant when I told you not to read too much into this.” Marcone sounded exasperated, but fondly so. A warm hand cupped my jaw, lifting my head so I could meet his gaze. “I don’t blame you for anything that’s happened. I’ve made my own choices, and I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t blame yourself for every single thing that happens in this town. You’re only one man, Harry Dresden. You can’t control everything, and you shouldn’t have to.”

I stared at him, hardly daring to breathe. My mind was strangely blank, free of everything but a few remnants of guilt and Marcone’s warm hand on my face. All of the memories from last week came screaming back in that touch, and suddenly I wanted nothing more than to do something incredibly, impossibly stupid.

So I did.

I lunged forward and crushed my lips to Marcone’s, smothering the surprised sound he made. I curled one hand around his neck and almost choked with relief when I felt his lips part beneath mine. The hand that had been cupping my cheek twisted fiercely into my hair. The kiss turned wet and ragged and I gasped into it, startling myself, and then—

Mouse barked.

Okay, here’s the thing about Mouse: He doesn’t bark often, but when he does, it’s downright _ear shattering_. Which means that when he wants your attention, damnit, he can get it.

Marcone and I broke apart, and I was satisfied to note that I wasn’t the only one whose breathing had become a little heavier.

“So that was… huh,” I said.

Mouse barked again, and Marcone glanced over my shoulder toward the door, his eyes narrowing.

“We’ll discuss it later,” he said, already back to business. Even so, his hands were gentle as he pushed me away, and then he was on his feet and around the couch and suddenly there was a large gun in his hands.

“Where the hell do you hide those?” I asked, and he just flashed me a sharp-toothed smile as he checked the chamber.

“On your feet, Mr. Dresden,” he said. He slapped the chamber shut and cocked the gun with a resounding chck. “Your guard dog commands it.”

Sure enough, Mouse was right beside me, nosing my leg. He was also growling so low in his throat that the entire floor was shaking.

Yep. Something was very wrong.

I got to my feet and made a beeline for my handy dandy wizarding equipment, leaning in the corner. My knees felt a little watery from the kiss, but I firmly shoved that thought away. Marcone had said we would discuss it later, and at the moment there was probably some supernatural beastie bearing down on my apartment, so it would just have to wait.

Stupid supernatural beastie. Whatever it was, it was in for a _world_ of pain.

I grabbed my blasting rod and my staff and stepped over to the door. I pressed my hand against it, feeling the thrum of my wards, and closed my eyes so I could Listen. I didn’t hear anything out of the ordinary yet—only the low hum of the city, full of traffic and voices and the occasional whooping siren—but that didn’t mean there wasn’t something out there, waiting to eat our faces off.

Paranoia. It saves lives, kids.

“Anything?” Marcone’s voice was low.

“Not yet.” I backed away from the door and Mouse came up beside me, nudging his head under my right hand. I absently scratched his ears. He had stopped growling, but I could feel the tension in his shoulders, and there was nary a tail-wag in sight.

“Just to be clear,” Marcone said, “if this is another attempt on my life, I can defend myself with lethal force, yes?”

“Technically, by attacking my home they’re attacking Accorded property, so we’re allowed to use whatever means of defense is necessary,” I said. Marcone just stared at me, so I reluctantly clarified, “Anything up to and including death.”

Marcone’s responding smile was sharp, and more than a little terrifying. “Good.”

“However…” I hesitated. The look he gave me could have curdled milk, so I hurried to explain. “In this case, humiliation would work better,” I said. “Killing them would basically be a declaration of war. Defeating them and sending them back to their Queen with their tails between their legs is just a warning. It might not put them off you for good, but it also wouldn’t prove them right about the whole allying-with-Winter thing.”

“I suppose that makes sense,” Marcone conceded, albeit grudgingly.

“So we’re agreed? No killing?”

“Agreed,” Marcone said through gritted teeth.

And then Mouse snarled, his fur rising, and something hit my wards with a resounding _THOOM_.

And then it hit them again. And again. And I realized that this was whatever-stood-outside’s way of knocking.

“Wizard Dresden,” called a low, resonant voice from outside. “We know you are harboring Baron John Marcone within your wards. Release him, and we will leave you in peace. This is your only warning.”

I glanced at Marcone. He was watching me with narrowed eyes, his mouth drawn in a tight line, almost like he was preparing himself to be thrown to the lions.

Yeah. Like hell.

I tightened my grasp on my staff and blasting rod and maneuvered myself so that I stood right between the door and Marcone, with Mouse at my side.

“Nah, I don’t think I’ll release him,” I called. “You see, I thrive on being contrary, and I don’t exactly take well to people ordering me around, especially when they’re out to hurt my friends. So no. You can’t have him. And I’d recommend you leave before I lose my temper.” I paused, hazarding a glance back at Marcone. He was grinning, fiercely, beautifully, proudly—proud of _me_ —and I felt my breath catch in my throat. On impulse I turned back to the door, raised my voice, and added, “This is _your_ only warning, bucko.”

There was silence from beyond the door for a moment, and when the voice spoke again it sounded decidedly more irritable: “So be it. You give me no other option than to use force.”

“Yeah?” I muttered, knowing whoever waited outside would probably hear. “Do your worst.”

Fingers grazed the back of my neck, and then Marcone curled a hand around my throat and tugged me down for a bruising kiss, firm and open-mouthed and hell’s _bells_ , what that man could do with his tongue.

I was panting a little by the time we parted, but he held me close for a moment, pressing our foreheads together so I could see the light flush on his cheeks.

“Never have I wanted you more, Harry Dresden,” he murmured, and, yeah, my knees may have gone a little weak at that.

Embarrassingly, “Hnnghf,” was the best I could manage in reply, so instead of words I crushed my mouth to his again, sliding my arm around his waist and pulling him flush against me.

_THOOM._

We broke apart and both looked to the door.

“Your wards,” said Marcone—or rather John, I suppose, because if the exchange of bodily fluids wasn’t an automatic excuse for a first-name-basis, I don’t know what was—as he gingerly disentangled himself from me. (It was only at that point that I realized my blasting rod had basically been jabbing him in the back the whole time, and no, “blasting rod” is not a euphemism, I’m not that flexible.) “How long will they hold?”

“Depends,” I said as the door rattled with another great _THOOM_.

“On?”

“What’s pounding on the other side.” I knew from experience just how long it would take anything from a toad demon to a horde of zombies to break through that door.

Sometimes I wonder about my life.

“Well, for simplicity’s sake, let’s assume it’s a Sidhe of at least middling power,” John said, raising his gun as the door _THOOM_ -ed again. “How long?”

I took up position beside him, just out of reach for when the door inevitably slammed open. “Not long,” I said, patting my leg so Mouse would stand beside me, also out of range of the door.

_THOOM._

“Look, don’t die, okay?” I blurted, without looking at John.

_THOOM._

John’s voice was wry. “Now why would I go and do a thing like that after everything that’s happened here tonight?”

_THOOM._

“I know, I just—”

“Harry.”

_THOOM._

“It’s going to be fine.”

“Oh god, _why would you say tha_ —?”

_THOOM-CRASH._

The door burst inwards, and light that was far too bright to be natural blazed into my apartment. A tall figure stood silhouetted against the glow, and I knew this was our Sidhe lord. He had the usual aristocratic features of the Sidhe, with high cheekbones and flaxen hair and shining blue eyes that gleamed almost as brightly as the light he exuded. I could feel the heat of Summer wafting off of him, a clear and rather unnecessary boast of his power.

Good. That meant he was cocky.

“Surrender yourself, Baron,” the faerie lord boomed, his voice deafening in my little apartment, “and the wizard may yet live.”

“Bite me, blondie,” I snapped. “You’re the one who broke the Accords.”

Those blazing eyes fixed on me. “I acted only on my Queen’s orders. She says the Baron must die, and so he will die.”

“Thank you, but I’d rather not,” John said coolly. He had his gun aimed right at the faerie lord’s head, unwavering. “You’ve both issued _your_ warnings. Now let me give you mine. Leave this town now and never return, or I will send you back to Queen Titania in pieces.”

The light around the Sidhe flared in fury. “You _dare_ to—”

The gun cracked, and the faerie lord shrieked.

I blinked.

Holy crap. John had just shot him in the foot.

“The bullet that just took off your toes was pure iron,” John said, his gun pointed once more at the Sidhe’s head, “in case you couldn’t tell. I have five more in this clip, and at least thirty more at the ready. I wonder…” He tilted his head, his eyes steely, his voice still utterly calm. “How many more limbs can I take before you give in?”

“You _fool_ ,” the Sidhe hissed, stooped a little in the doorway, one long-fingered hand clutching his injured leg. “You have no idea what you’ve—”

_CRACK._

The Sidhe lord’s head snapped to the side with another pained cry, and his hand flew to the bloodied hole where his left ear had just been.

“I would advise you not to make me use this whole clip,” John said. “Now I will make the offer again, just in case you didn’t catch it the first time. Leave Chicago, and leave off your mission, and I will harm you no further.”

“Mortal wretch—!” the Sidhe growled, and flung out a bloodied hand. Heat and golden flames broke over us in waves. I lifted my staff and shouted, “ _Protego!_ ” The familiar blue dome sprang up between us and the enraged faerie lord, and the flames broke easily against the barrier, rising up to scorch my ceiling and flaring out to make an utter wreck of my living room and kitchen counter. A quick glance behind me showed that Mister had vanished from the top of the bookshelf at some point during the fight, and I could only be glad.

“Fool,” I heard Marcone mutter, and then the gun barked again, two sharp bursts, and the magic flickered to a halt.

The flames receded to show the Sidhe doubled over in pain, gasping and bleeding from a new wound in his shoulder and another in his thigh.

“I mean no harm to the Summer Court,” John said into the sudden silence, sounding as regal as any king. “I am willing to overlook this incident and forgive both you and your Queen if she desists her machinations and leaves me in peace. I have no plans to ally myself with either Winter or Summer. The balance will remain.”

The faerie lord glared up at John, his eyes and power faded. “This is your message?” he hissed through gritted teeth.

“It is,” John said. “Now please leave, and take those two bullets with you.” A grin spread across his face, all tiger. “A gift from Baron Marcone.”

The Sidhe bowed, grudgingly, then vanished in a blaze of light and heat.

“Well,” I said, after a beat of resounding silence. “At least my door survived this time.”

“Mm.” John lowered his gun and tossed it onto the couch, then slumped against the wall with a heavy sigh, his eyes closing.

I decided to give him a moment. I closed my door, kicking it until it shut properly, and then went about resetting the wards that had been broken. Stupid Sidhe, breaking in wherever they wanted. It would take days to reset my wards properly, but I did the best patchwork I could, because there was no way in hell I was letting my apartment go unguarded after _that_ encounter.

When the wards were as strong as they were going to be, I stashed my staff and blasting rod back in the corner, spared a moment to crouch in front of Mouse and ruffle his fur—if it hadn’t been for him we could very easily have been caught (literally) with our pants down—then turned my attention to John, who hadn’t moved.

“So,” I said quietly, shoving my hands into my pockets as I approached him. “You _do_ know that you probably just royally pissed off one of the most powerful Sidhe in the world?”

John’s mouth twisted into a wry smile, but he didn’t open his eyes. “I am aware.”

“Isn’t that what you were trying to avoid?”

“Not entirely.” He finally cracked his eyes open to look at me, and it took everything I had not to drop my gaze; I still wasn’t quite used to that fond look in his eye. “I wanted to get her off my back, yes, but I also needed her respect. Now she knows I mean business. Hopefully…” He closed his eyes again. “… that will make her think twice about crossing me in the future.”

I stared at him. Sometimes—at times like this, when we were flush with victory—it was too easy for me to believe that John was untouchable. He was a mob boss, surrounded by powerful guards. He was the first and only mortal free-holding lord, able to hold his own against the Sidhe, not to mention the scarier parts of the Nevernever. He was also a brilliant strategist and frighteningly skilled killer.

But he was human, too. And stubborn enough to assume he always had everything under control. And that made him vulnerable.

I moved forward and gently framed his face in my hands, then dipped my head to press my lips against his. His mouth opened under mine without hesitation and the kiss deepened and he made this _sound_ , all grumbly and pleased, and then his hands were sliding around my waist and I was trapped.

Wonderfully, wonderfully trapped.

I knew that if I thought too hard about what we were doing, I’d probably panic or faint or something, so I let my body take over. I began to trail kisses over his chiseled jaw and down toward his throat, light, eager presses of my lips to his skin, all sensation, barely any thought.

John groaned and let his head fall back, and _jesusfuck_ , if that didn’t almost finish it all for me right there, because I’ll be damned if there’s a bigger power trip than having John _fucking_ Marcone bare his throat for me.

I ducked my head to press sucking kisses along his carotid, firm enough that I could feel the thud of his pulse beneath my tongue. I threaded my hand through his hair to tug him into a better position, then I added teeth, just a scrape here, a nibble there, never enough to break the skin but just enough to hurt. His hands squeezed my biceps hard enough to bruise, but he didn’t pull away, and he didn’t flinch.

“ _Stars_ ,” I muttered against his skin, because I was so hard it hurt, because he was _letting me do this_ , and then he gently shifted his hips so I could feel him pressing hard against my thigh.

And then he _moved_.

It wasn’t a desperate, jerking, frat-boy move, either. This was a freaking work of art. He arched his hips into mine, sinuous and sleek, with just enough friction to drive me wild. I’d always known he was graceful, always known he was in amazing shape and could probably do wonders with that body of his, but _hells bells_. That just wasn’t fair.

Needless to say, I was thoroughly distracted from his neck, and he pulled me up for a firm, open-mouthed kiss. I may have moaned into his mouth a little as he rocked against me again, all lithe muscle and sinewy strength, and I found my cock pressed up against his hip. He broke away from the kiss to flash me a brief, predatory smile, and then he captured my lips again and _moved_ again, and christonacracker I needed to get this man into a bed posthaste.

“ _Nngh._ ” I pulled away, panting. “Bed.”

John _growled_ , and my knees probably would have given out if he hadn’t started backing me toward the bedroom. I kicked open the door behind me and it cracked hard against the wall, rebounding with a rattle. John huffed out a laugh against my jaw, and my stomach did a little flip. I gripped him hard, tugging him close, because part of me still didn’t believe that this was happening, and that laugh… I’d never heard its like.

I wanted to hear it again.

My calves hit the bed and I tumbled back onto it, pulling John down with me, unwilling to let him get too far away. He chuckled again and I curled my hand into his dark-and-silver hair, capturing his lips so I could swallow the sound. His hand slipped beneath my shirt, skimming my belly, and then it traveled south, tugging down my jeans until he could palm my cock.

I’m a little embarrassed to admit how hard I jerked at the contact, shimmying a little in an attempt to get my pants further down. I felt John smile against my lips, and then with one great tug, my pants were in a pool around my ankles and his hand was back on me, around me, working me through the fabric of my boxers.

I broke away from his mouth with a gasp.

“Wait,” I said. “I don’t want to make a mess.”

John shot a wry glance over his shoulder at the wreck of my living room.

“I think we’re a bit beyond that, wouldn’t you agree?” he said.

“I mean in my shorts, you ass.” I worked a hand in between our bodies and shinnied out of my boxers, then kicked both jeans and boxers into a heap on the floor. John grinned down at me as he knelt over my thighs, all predator, and I glared. “You’re over-dressed.”

“My apologies.” He started unbuttoning his shirt, revealing a fine-toned chest and curled silver hair. I lurched up to catch his hands, stopping him. His eyes met mine, black pools ringed in money-green, and they didn’t waver as I resumed unbuttoning. My hands were shaking, but the silk slipped easily off his shoulders, leaving him wonderfully shirtless (the small white bandages still covering his gunshot wounds notwithstanding, and honestly, it was just easier if I didn’t think about those), and it was the work of a moment to pull off my own shirt.

“Still over-dressed,” I quipped, starting to fumble at his belt buckle…

… And utterly failing.

I blinked down at it, briefly wondering if it was foreign or welded shut or something, and John rolled his eyes and slapped my hands away.

“You’re unbelievable.” Three quick motions, a quick hop to his feet, and he was free of both slacks and boxers, both of which probably cost more than a month of my rent, but he didn’t seem to mind tossing them in a heap with my own.

I allowed myself to look at him while he did this— _really_ look, because stars, now I finally _could_ —and I was surprised to see all of the scars marring his ridiculously toned body: tiny little pucker wounds that had obviously been gunshots, slim white lines from knife fights and the like, and one large, shiny gash near his hipbone, obviously old, but not well-healed. I traced it curiously as John settled over my hips again.

“Kuwait,” he said quietly. Then he gently grasped my left hand—the one I’d used to trace his scar—and kissed my fingers, which were still pretty gnarly with burns. He met my eyes, raising an inquisitive brow.

“Charred vampires,” I said.

“That seems to be a habit with you.”

“Funny.” I leaned forward to press my lips to an old puckered bullet wound and then, carefully, to the edge of the bandage closest to his heart. “I could say the same about you.”

John hummed deep in his throat. The sound went straight to my groin, and he knew it. He grasped my biceps, grinning, and lowered me back down onto the bed. Then he ducked his head and mouthed at another one of my scars, this one at the juncture of my neck and shoulder.

“Lycanthropes,” I gasped, and then I may have made an embarrassing noise as he suddenly pulled away to frown down at me.

“Before I got there?” he asked.

“A while before. They beat me to a pulp on the side of the road, remember?”

I knew it was the wrong thing to say as soon as I saw his jaw clench and his eyes go steely.

“Um.” I started mentally flailing a little, because he had _that_ look on his face, the same look he had before he started killing things, and while I’m all for killing-things-John, at the moment I was more interested in doing-glorious-things-with-his-body-John, and I really wanted that John back. “I’m good now, though. Totally fine. See?” I placed my hands on either side of his face, making him look at me, and flashed him a wide, googly grin. “Totally fine.”

John sighed and closed his eyes, then leaned down to kiss me, firm but soft.

“They’re dead,” he mumbled against my lips, more for his benefit than mine.

“Quite dead,” I said cheerfully. “Murdered-by-hexenwolves dead.”

“Good,” John growled, and then his hand was back around my cock and _twisting_ and—

“ _Nnghk_ ,” was pretty much the only thing I could think of to say about that. But it made John grin again, which was always a good thing, so I curled a hand around his neck and pulled him down into a sloppy open-mouthed kiss.

“ _Harry_ ,” he groaned, but I didn’t let him say much more than that before I caught him up in another kiss—because honestly, if he kept saying my name like that and kept doing… _that_ … with his hand, then I wouldn’t last very long, and an early finish to this night was simply not acceptable.

His hand was tight and slick around my cock, and in less than five minutes of fumbling he already knew how to drive me crazy. No surprises there, I guess. With every stroke he’d swipe his thumb carefully over the head, slicking himself even more, and on the downstroke he’d let his fingers wander, brushing ever so slightly against my sack.

I writhed against him, and it felt like my whole body was shaking. I finally broke away from his mouth and buried my face in the crook of his neck, panting. He pressed kisses against my temple, in my hair, and finally took my ear between his teeth, tugging lightly. I could feel him grinding against me, his cock a hard pressure against my thigh. I groped a hand down in between our bodies and—somehow, miraculously—managed to get him in hand at last, rewarding him with a nice hard squeeze.

“ _Fuck_ ,” John moaned, his breath shuddering right into my ear, and _stars_ , how I wanted to feel him come apart.

Now, I’d never really done the whole mutual-handjob spiel before, so I just started trying out what I knew I liked, technique-wise. It was pretty damn hard to concentrate with John biting bruises into my neck and masterfully jerking me off and arching his back to press even _closer_ to me, but I must have managed to get the right pressure, the right speed, the right tricks, because soon John was shuddering against me, just as hard and hot as I was.

And then he cheated, and pressed his fingers very low and _just so_ and kissed me hard on the lips and I cursed against his mouth as I spilled out all over his stomach and mine, writhing and gasping as he guided me through my climax.

The leaden, lovely feeling of afterglow had just begun to set in when I pulled away a little so I could grin at him, meeting his warm, money-green eyes, and then I gripped him hard and stroked once, twice, and—

Hells bells, the _sound_ he made.

Yeah, I was definitely gonna have to hear that again.

John collapsed bonelessly beside me on the bed when he was finished, breathing hard. I turned my head to look at him and caught him smiling.

“So,” he said.

“So,” I said. “We’re a mess.”

John chuckled. “In more ways than one.”

“I’m just talking about the one right now.” I stretched my arm back until I could grab my abandoned t-shirt, then used it to wipe away said mess, first from my abdomen, and then from John’s. He watched me as I tidied, heavy-lidded and looking for all intents and purposes like a languid, sated cat, and when we were fairly clean, I tossed the shirt onto the floor and leaned down to press a gentle kiss to the big shiny scar on his hip. Because I hadn’t done it before and damnit, I wanted to.

Gentle fingers curled into the hair at the nape of my neck, and I allowed myself to be pulled up into a real kiss, open and indolent and strangely sweet.

“I’m not going to fall apart, Harry,” John said when we finally parted, and it was weird, how he could just read my mind like that. Because yeah, I was thinking about his scars again. And about the bandages on his chest and the wound on his arm and how goddamn close I’d come to losing him without ever really having him to begin with. And all those other scars, the older ones… They were just a reminder that if one of those wounds had been a little deeper, or a little higher, I might never have met John Marcone at all.

Hells bells. Sometimes he just seemed so horribly, breakably _human_.

“Harry,” he said again, fiercely, and I ducked my head.

“Sorry,” I said. “Sometimes I just can’t… Sorry.”

John sighed and pressed a chaste little kiss against my forehead.

We lay in silence for a while, but I knew from the hand gently rubbing my back and the easy quiet that I was forgiven.

At least for a while.

*

Later I dozed, John a solid warmth against my back. His breath tickled the nape of my neck, slowing and evening out as he dropped off to sleep. One of his hands rested lightly against my stomach, and I absently traced my fingers over his wrist, over the veins on the back of his hand, between his fingers.

I was comfortable. More comfortable than I had been in years. The last person I could remember being with like this was Susan, and although it still hurt to think of her, it somehow hurt less while wrapped in John’s arms. I felt rather guilty about that, but I was too sated and sleepy to agonize over it for too long, so I just figured, hey. Maybe this was what moving on felt like.

Later, in the daylight, I’d realize that was true.

John shifted, nuzzling drowsily against my neck, and his arms tightened around me, tugging me close. I buried my smile in my pillow, because apparently I’m a total sap, and hugged his arm close to my chest, still idly tracing his hand.

I wondered if this man knew how much sway he had over me. If he knew how often he turned up in my thoughts, usually while I was fretting over his safety or, you know, if it was a day ending in ‘y.’

John Marcone led a dangerous life, just as I did, and as much as it might make me nervous, I didn’t see that changing anytime soon. He was too fiercely determined to even consider the notion of “giving up,” and too good at what he did to entrust his city and his work to anyone else. And, well… I’d feel like too much of a hypocrite to ask him to stop simply to keep himself safe. Because I myself have been told I’m too stupidly stubborn to stand down and let innocent people come to harm. And to quote a great fictional man: With great power comes great responsibility.

So yeah, neither of us was on the track to an early retirement, which meant that whatever this thing between us became, whatever we ended up meaning to each other… It would be a relationship fraught with danger, constant worry, more than a few ulcers, and—knowing us—a fair share of bickering.

But for John… I could do that. I could get used to the fact that at any moment some evil creature or crazy mortal would come gunning for one or both of us. I could even accept the less-than-legal side of his business, as long as I never had to be involved in it, which I knew he would never allow, anyway. But we’d protect each other just as we had in the past, only this time everything would be out on the table, and you know what? That was fine. Because for John, I could do that.

I stared into the darkness of my room, undeniably content, listening to John breathe. My lips curved into a smile. I gently grasped his hand—the one I had been mapping with my fingers—and lifted it to my lips, pressing a dry kiss to his knuckles, just as he had done about a week ago.

 _Yeah_ , I thought, closing my eyes. _I can do this._

**Author's Note:**

> I'm feeling one more installment in this series... Expect it to be up in a few weeks!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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